


A Letter Never Sent

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Sherlock didn't know that, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Requited Love, Sadness, Unrequited Love, grit in the machine, letters never sent, the things we never say scream the loudest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unsent draft retrieved from Sherlock's email during the investigation after the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Letter Never Sent

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything.

**[Unsent draft retrieved from Sherlock's email during the investigation after he jumped]**

John. I know I will never be able to tell you any of this, but I can't go much longer without expressing it in some fashion. I fear it will drive me mad to think it, over and over, without putting it into words - at least now it will be limited somehow, confined to this solitary email. Nevertheless, I'm still afraid to voice it at all.

Funny, that, isn't it? Emotion? The grit in the lens? Body betraying mind as always. You always bring out the more human side of me. I wish you wouldn't; it's hard to relearn how to feel, and I know that once you're gone it will be far harder to relearn how to be alone. Because you will be gone, you know - they always are, the people I care at all for. They always leave. I don't know how you will go, but I can guess: marriage? Such a major relationship change can often decay pre-existing friendships. Or will I finally say the last thoughtless, heartless thing you can take? Will it be me who drives you away? I don’t want to upset you that much, John.

The last possibility I shudder to even think of - I will not allow it to happen, never. You are not part of the game; you are a bystander, caught up because you’re connected with me. You don’t deserve to lose your life for it; so if ever the time comes when your survival is in doubt, John, know that I will sacrifice myself first. There’s nothing you can do to change my mind about that.

But I don’t want to lose you at all. I don’t want you to go. Childishly, selfishly, I want to cling to you, my refuge, my quiet place in the midst of all the havoc of everyday life - do you know, John, how loud it all gets? All the input, screaming to be heard and paid attention to until I feel like I’m being shredded in the cyclone of data. If there is peace to be found besides that in the morphine bottle, it is with you. Having you near, in the flat, puttering around and saying inane things-it helps me more than you will ever understand. With you, I am no longer in pain.

I cannot imagine a better person for this odd virtue of yours, either - doctor and soldier, saviour and warrior, two opposite professions so seamlessly blended in you. You are a juxtaposition, and I am eternally fascinated by your quiet strength, your fierce compassion. Everything that makes John Watson confuses me.

But I begin to drift off the point. The point, my dear Watson, is that I love you - though I have never had a frame of reference for the destructive emotion, I am reasonably certain that this is what it feels like. I want to reach out and touch you, pull you close to me and savour your presence. I want to make you smile much more often, to bring out your quiet laughter despite your notions of social propriety. Doing so brings something warm and soft into my chest, as though I’ve found somewhere I belong. Someone with whom I belong.

I would like to wake up to you, to press my lips to your brow and kiss away the creases of sleep and worry. I would like to nestle close to you, my sanctuary, and talk of trifling nothings through the day. I want you to bully me into eating, I want to eat with you and pretend to be annoyed when we both know I’m quite content. I want you to scold me over my abuse of the transport, I want you to be angry when I’ve made mistakes and tell me when I’m being a bit not good. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, who has somehow made me properly happy without the use of stimulants for the first time in my adult life.

But you are hung up on this matter of sexuality; I don’t come in the right tin for you. Whether or not you’d be better inclined towards me if I were female, I don’t know; I can’t imagine you would ever feel similarly, when you have charming, pretty women who aren’t sharp and cold around the edges clamouring for your attentions. And so I can never say any of this to you.

Be assured, however, my John, my blogger, my friend and confidant, my love, that if I have any sort of heart it is because of you waking the dormant parts of me up again.

 

Believe me to be very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


End file.
